


Warlord's Optics

by WizardSandwich



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: People Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 17:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardSandwich/pseuds/WizardSandwich
Summary: Sometimes Megatron enjoys watching.





	Warlord's Optics

**Author's Note:**

> this is a fic written for a giveaway! you can find more of me at @tasteful-robot-loving on tumblr!

Swerve’s is the kind of loud that Megatron can appreciate. It reminds him of good days in the mines, in the Decepticons, in the Functionalist universe. All of the kinds of places where everything was falling to pieces but where he enjoyed himself. Once.

Swerve’s voice flows across the bar top. It’s an even and steady hum that makes it easy to sit and drink. His servos move fast, mixing together drinks and passing them to Bluestreak just as quickly. The blue mech trapezes all around the bar to serve them and get orders. Swerve doesn’t stop chattering even when no one is listening. Part of Megatron wonders if he’s talking to a ghost. Skids lingers over him like a shroud that Megatron knows will never go away.

At his side, Fulcrum returns from his break. His yellow optics are bright with joy. Grimlock lingers at his elbow, carrying a tray of ingredients that Megatron doesn’t recognize. There’s a scruff of bright pink paint on his frame that means that Misfire hugged him a bit too hard and another scrap of blue that lets him know that Crankcase was dragged into it.

And Megatron knows that the Scavengers are happier like this, on this ship, than they ever were in the Decepticon ranks. It makes part of him ache but there’s joy in watching them fulfill their passion. Even more so in watching them care for one another like Megatron once did others.

First Aid leans over the bar and his bright red paint calls Megatron’s attention. He lets his gaze wander. Watching has never required him to focus on one thing. Riptide pokes First Aid’s shoulder. Megatron can’t see First Aid’s face but he can tell by the glow of his visor that he’s made a comment that would offend any other mech. Riptide merely laughs. His teeth glint in the low light of the bar, making him look more fierce than he could ever be. His servo catches snug on First Aid’s shoulder this time and he snatches First Aid’s drink from in front of him. A move First Aid clearly allowed, if the lack of reaction were any indication. It makes Megatron sorely aware of what he himself has lost.

On First Aid’s other side, Ratchet sits, servos interlinked with Drift’s. There’s forgiveness between them that would be unexpected between two less stubborn mechs. It’s in every line of their frames, in the way Ratchet smiles—dare Megatron call it dreamily—at Drift. It’s something that Megatron nor any mech who knew of Deadlock would have expected. Save Rodimus. Rodimus had always been oddly aware when he was not biased. Though perhaps his biases helped him see the kind of mech Drift could be.

Drift’s free servo passes Ratchet a drink. A low grade, if the dull pink glow said anything. Supposedly, it was supposed to be better for Ratchet’s health, ordered by the ever courteous First Aid. Ratchet shoots the younger medic a harsh look. First Aid stares back. Riptide’s arms move as he makes an exaggerated comment that makes Ratchet shut his mouth before it opens. It makes Drift’s optics dim. Riptide’s expression becomes even more clueless but also apologetic.

Megatron finally lets his gaze wonder from the bar. There’s something missing here, he knows, but he cannot place it. His optics settle in corners and shadows and he finds nothing to see. It does not make the feeling of_ missing-gone-pleasecomeback _go away. He takes another swig of high-grade to drown it out and lets his optics settle on Cyclonus and Tailgate.

They both are sturdy mechs, able to hold their own in a fight, but in this, in romance, they stumble like the newly forged. Tailgate practically is, but Cyclonus should have a couple millennia experience. Cyclonus still fumbles his way through it. His optics tell the tale of a mech who thinks that Tailgate is too good for him. Megatron does not know how to tell him to appreciate what he has without sounding intrusive. He does not know how to make him see that doubt will leave him hurting in the long run. Perhaps he will pass the message to Whirl if the Wrecker will listen. Cyclonus always had an audial open for Whirl’s advice.

There is nothing much to see of Cyclonus and Tailgate. Their servos are intertwined, Tailgate’s mask is removed, and together they use straws to sip at their high-grade. They are the kind of lovers that Megatron used to see in places like Maccadam’s. The kind that Megatron longed to be with someone long ago.

He lets his gaze wander again, hoping to find someone else to see. Roller sits next to Nickel and Rodimus, Thunderclash across from him. None of them are quiet except for Nickel. Thunderclash is very clearly drunk and Roller’s optics are filled with amusement, his lips quirked into a smirk. Rodimus is laughing at Thunderclash. It’s less mean than good-natured these days. Thunderclash’s servo sits on his shoulder in a comfortably friendly manner, a testament to the ways that all of them have grown and filled each other out. His drunken smile is soft and full of kindness. Clearly, he thinks Rodimus is a mech worth following. Megatron can’t find it in himself to disagree. Rodimus is a good mech and an even better captain.

A table away, Rewind and Chromedome are huddled together, Rewind practically sitting on Chromedome’s lap. Never two to be apart, now they are almost inseparable. They don’t stop touching, always in contact. The miner in Megatron knows the pain of loss intimately. He cannot fault Rewind for pressing close. He cannot fault him for clinging to the mech who almost lost himself to a pointless sacrifice. Rewind might as well believe he has centuries to make up for. Megatron isn’t sure he is wrong.

It’s only when they stand and other mechs start leaving the bar that Megatron realizes the late time. His internal chronometer reads the early hours of the morning. He has less than six joors to slip into recharge and then to relieve Ultra Magnus of his post. As much as watching the crew may soothe him, he cannot abandon his duties, not today at the very least. He has not for over eight hundred years, almost a full millennia. He will not stop now.


End file.
